A young man sat at the switchboard reading a magazine. He looked up, dropped the magazine, and his jaw fell lax. “Mr. Devlin! Is it really you?”
“Believe it or not,” said Devlin. “Do me a favor, Jack. I need a couple of dollars for taxi fare.”
“Sure, Mr. Devlin. Sure.” The clerk got up and went to the cash drawer, speaking rapidly over his shoulder. “But I thought — we all thought you weren’t due back yet. June twenty-second was the date we had down. Are you sure two dollars is enough, sir?” He held out the two bills.
Devlin took them and handed them to the driver. “Keep the change,” he said.
The driver pocketed the bills, gave Devlin a last, long, suspicious look, shrugged and grunted something that sounded like “thanks,” and went out.
“The ship isn’t due until day after tomorrow — or tomorrow, now, I guess. This is the twenty-first, isn’t it?” Devlin strove for a light tone but it was lost on the clerk, who was staring queerly at the checkered suit and the hat that covered the lump on his head. “That’s right, Mr. Devlin. This is the twenty-first. Were you in some kind of accident? You look sorta sick.”
Devlin did his best with a smile. “It’s a long story, Jack. I had to hurry back on business, so I caught a plane and flew in tonight. There was a crack-up.” He pushed the felt hat back and touched the lump on his head tenderly.
“That looks bad.” There was instant concern in Jack’s voice. “Flew up from Key West, huh? I’ve been kind of keeping track on a map where you were on the cruise so I could send you wires or anything important, like you said.”
“Thanks,” said Devlin. “Do I have any mail?”
The clerk turned to the cubbyhole behind him, took out a small packet of letters, and handed them to Devlin. “This is all that’s come. Do you have any luggage?”
Devlin took the letters and said, “My luggage will be in tomorrow. And that reminds me — I don’t have a key to my apartment with me. Do you have an extra one?”
“Sure.” He opened a drawer and took out a key, pushed it toward Devlin.
“Thanks, Jack. And good night. I’m really all in.” He turned away with a wan smile and went toward the self-service elevator. He did not look back to see the anxious, puzzled eyes of the clerk following him.
As though he had drawn upon the last of his strength to stay on his feet, to maintain some semblance of his normal self, and to exert every mental effort to think things through, Arthur Devlin’s teeth were chattering and he shivered in the grip of near-hysteria when he finally reached the door of his apartment. He stabbed at the keyhole until the key fitted in, turned it, opened the door, and went inside. He closed it by pushing slowly backward and when the lock clicked he stood leaning against it. He gritted his teeth to stop their chattering, doubled and undoubled his fists until he was steady again.
Two steps took him to the archway leading into the living-room. He reached inside and snapped on a switch that lighted the huge white frosted globe of a table lamp and the reading bulb above it. An enormous parchment shade diffused the light softly over the room. He stood there for a full minute, hungrily drinking in the sight of his spacious, comfortable surroundings. The air was hot and musty, but he was home. Safe at home again, and he gloated over every chair and table and small knickknack within his vision.
He dropped the packet of letters on the low coffee table and went on to open the windows. He took the felt hat off and let cool wind blow through his hair. The pain in his temple was reduced to a slow, irritating throbbing, and the nausea was only a threat in his throat. The odd, nervous chill in his body persisted. He went into the bedroom and poured a small glass of bourbon from a cut-glass decanter, sank down on the clean, comfortable bed, and sipped it. Warmth filtered slowly through his veins and he stopped shivering.
But the nervousness, the urgency to do something, to begin finding out what he could brought him to his feet. After one glimpse of himself in his own clear mirror he peeled off the filthy coat, took the roll of bills from the trousers pocket before taking them off. He was appalled at the flimsy underwear, but before removing it, he sat down on the bed again and took the rubber band from the bills.
There were fresh bloodstains on the outer ones, and he stared at them somberly. Death-money! This was the money Marge had wanted to know about — the money he had killed a man for — ten thousand dollars. Ten grand, he presumed a guy like Joey would call it.
After counting it again, carefully, he rolled the bills in a tight ball and thrust it under one of the pillows, then went into the bathroom, unbuttoning the ludicrous shirt as he went.
After testing the water, he left it running in the tub and returned to the living-room, where he picked up the phone, gave Jack a number, and waited impatiently while the instrument at the other end of the wire rang repeatedly. He counted the rings, heard the receiver lifted on the tenth one. A sleepy voice drawled a negligent hello and Arthur Devlin’s depressed spirits responded with an upsurge of hope.
“Tommy!” he exclaimed. “Is that you?”
“This is Doctor Thompson speaking. Who is—?”
“Devlin — Art Devlin, Tommy.”
“Art? I thought you were sailing the seven seas.”
“I’m not. I’ve got to see you, Tommy.”
“Sure — sure. I want to hear all about your trip, but not at this unearthly hour. What the devil—?”
“I’ve got to see you now. At once. How fast can you get here?”
“But Art — it’s two o’clock in the morning. Are you—?”
“Listen to me, Tommy. This is a matter of life and death. Get here as fast as you can.”
Some of the urgency in Devlin’s tone carried over the wire to his friend. “Sure, Art — right away. But if this is some kind of a drunken joke—”
“I’m not drunk and it’s not a joke. Hurry.”
Devlin wiped sweat from his face as he cradled the telephone. He went to the bathroom, stripped off the rest of the soiled clothing, and crawled into a tub of steaming water. Five minutes later, clad in clean pajamas and a light cotton robe, he sank into his favorite chair with a deep sigh of relief. He was trying to frame in his mind a credible story of the incredible thing that had happened to him — some way to begin it that would drive the truth home to his old friend.
He jumped when his door buzzer sounded and the lump on his head throbbed. He got up slowly and went to the door, opened it, and held out both his hands to Doctor Thompson. “Thank God, Tommy,” he said. “Thank God you’re here.”
Doctor Ronald Thompson dropped his small emergency bag and caught Devlin’s hands in a solid grip. He was slightly shorter than average height, a well-fleshed man in his mid-thirties with a look of competent intelligence in the quizzical brown eyes behind horn-rimmed glasses.
“You don’t look like a dying man,” he said, a mixture of mystification and concern in his tone.
Devlin drew him inside and closed the door. Thompson picked up his bag and carried it into the living-room, set it on the center table, and turned to face Devlin. “What’s this all about, Art? I thought you weren’t due until tomorrow.”
“I wasn’t. That is — I guess the Belle of the Caribbean won’t touch here until then.” Devlin moved a step closer and said, “Look at me, Tommy. Look at me close. Am — I different?”
Thompson said, “Damn it, Art, you’ve been drinking.”
“No — I only had one small drink to steady me. Do you mean — I look just the same as ever?”
“Except for that nasty bump on your head — and — well, you look pale and all in.” A deep frown came between his eyes. “I’m afraid the sea voyage didn’t do you much good,” he continued. “Were you seasick? And how the devil did you get in ahead of the ship?”